


Melancholia

by lolo313



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Longing, M/M, POV Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 14:05:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8627416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: The pain of longing, as felt by Stiles.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, immensely, to my beta: CarysPendragon
> 
> Please enjoy

Stiles didn’t remember much of his mother’s illness. Not that he’d been too young; he was just better at not remembering. But certain things bled through. The sour scent of disinfectant. The yellowed sickness of the fluorescent lights. The sad way his mother always looked at him. Like she was sorry. It hurt, in some deep, unnameable way to see so much regret. The pain of longing to give something to someone, and the terrible ache of being unable to. The heaviness of his mother’s eyes weighed down his heart and confused him. How could one hurt so badly and still live? Stiles knew of course that his mother _was_ dying, but not all at once, like he thought she would have. She died little by little. More each day.

That’s what it meant to love Scott McCall. To die by degrees.

Oh, it didn’t start as love. At least, only in the way that all love stories start with love that isn’t yet. It starts as something gentler. Something subtle. A flutter of the heart at the turn of a wrist, the brush of a finger. A second too long, the eyes allowed to linger on the bob of a throat, the tensing of a thigh. A blossoming awareness of intimacy. Of too tight spaces. The air suddenly thin.

Stiles couldn’t remember when it started. Nor how. It was as if Scott had burst from black and white into color. The insides of all his lines suddenly filled in. He saw the rich earth of his eyes one day as he had never before. Scott turned down the volume on the world whenever he spoke. Stiles lost himself listening to Scott. The outline of his body grew faint, as if all his atoms were slowly scattering, pulled by the gravity of Scott’s laugh. His smile held the universe.

He tried to fight it. Threw himself into casework, researching the monster of the week. Pursued Lydia. Anything to distract himself from the musk that enveloped him whenever Scott slung an arm round his shoulder. All for naught. His nights grew long, the dawn elusive as sleep, his mind filled with the hard lines of Scott’s jaw, the imagined taste of his skin. He felt feverish at the thought of Scott atop him, his body pressing Stiles’ into the mattress, down, down. Crushing him. That it was he wanted. To be crushed. Subsumed.

If he grew distant, erratic, no one noticed. At least, no one who cared. Others maybe, but not Scott. Never Scott. He couldn’t know. Why else would be conspire with Stiles over how to win Allison’s heart? Why would he spend hours recounting the smell of her hair, the sweet, supple dip of her navel, the citrus taste of her still lingering in his mouth. How he glowed when he told Stiles he’d fucked her. So proud he practically swaggered. Stiles clapped him on the back, smiled, congratulated him, excused himself to the bathroom. He retched into the toilet, hurriedly unbuckled his belt, sat and hugged his knees as his stomach liquefied and emptied. He balled a towel, held it to his mouth and sobbed.

His father asked if it was drugs, drinking. If he’d gotten involved with a gang.

“No. Just love.”

They’d laughed, like they’d shared a joke.

Stiles ate less. Lost weight. Began to fade away. He saw Scott less. Not much less. But enough to notice. Often when he came over to study, his neck sported some new bruise. Stiles imagined Allison’s teeth against Scott’s throat. He assured and reassured him of his place in his life, of his status as best friend. The words clogged Stiles’ heart, his mouth hung open, empty and dumb. How to tell him he wanted more, _so much more_?

Stiles was afraid. Terrified. Of that slow dawning of realization. Of the shift in Scott’s eye, the subtle narrowing of brow and pursing of lip. Of that distance, the inch he would withdraw, the first of many, at his confession. Of Scott’s hand awkward on his shoulder, the pitying consolation of his voice as he told him _I love you like a brother_. That was the problem: Stiles had no simile. He did not know what love like this was like.

Stiles was at school when his mother died. He’d been called to the office, one of his father’s deputies came to collect him, deposited him at the hospital. He did not see her body, only the ghost of her, the white sheet pulled over her face. Like she’d disappeared, left a blank space behind her. Something unfillable.

That’s what it meant to love Scott McCall. To be unfilled.


End file.
